Checkmate
by raingarcia022
Summary: [MacStella] "It's like a silly game that exact moment ... one minute I am wallowing in this fear, the next minute it's right in front of me. Someone MUST be up there, gobbling up my Queen and jeopardizing my King, telling me, Checkmate." (Mac POV)


**TITLE**: Checkmate

**AUTHOR**: Rain Garcia

**RATING**: T

**SUMMARY**: "It's like a silly game that exact moment ... one minute I am wallowing in this fear, the next minute it's right in front of me. Someone MUST be up there, gobbling up my Queen and jeopardizing my King, telling me, Checkmate." (Mac POV)

**SPOILERS**: Post- ep for Officer Blue

**FEEDBACK**: Please do. Raves or flames, all are welcome.

**DISCLAIMER**: They don't belong to me. I wish they did, because I'll have loads and loads of fun with them --- more than the kind of fun JB is having with them right now.

**A/N**:

**Jenna**: I couldn't have written this without you. You're undoubtedly my writing cherub.

**Ranma**: We'll take a tour of their apartment soon. After we visit St. Patrick's (if we don't get lost first). Thanks for Wall Street.

Set in the same universe as "_Black Wishes_", but the latter is not necessary for you to understand this. If you want to read that, you can search for it here or click on my username. Thanks to those who took the time to tell me what they thought of "Black Wishes". Much appreciated all the way.

* * *

CHECKMATE  
By: Rain Garcia

I don't understand how the smaller things in everyday living can change your perspective. I accept death in its purest form because that's how you should deal with it – you grieve, you suffer, you move on – and that's normal when you face this incident. I _understand_ the fact that it's meant to change me wholly; not only as a person, but also as a human being. I took that for what it is and stepped forward.

But how do you deal with the smaller things when for eons, you have been given the comforting cradle of the big picture? You have been looking at life through pristine rose- colored glasses and for the longest eternity, you never did remove your glasses to squint your eyes for the little details?

Now, these little details are cruising right in front of me: The cursed films of my indecision. Just like that, they suddenly become THE big picture.

It must be my fault because I always staple her to the background. She's an artwork in my life: just as beautiful – probably ranks as a genuine Van Gogh -, and just as fleetingly unimportant. Like any artwork that you drape on your bland walls, it brightens up the space, but as time goes on, you forget that it's **the** object that is giving aesthetic presence in your otherwise blank room.

I notice her because she is constantly perfect in that womanly way, however, when it comes to the real world, I forget that she exists. That I sleep with her at nights, that she has her own mind and her own feelings, that we're supposed to be sharing this relationship (that I don't even dare call a relationship).

I know that she deserves so much more, that she deserves a fucking rich bastard with five fucking limos and a hundred mother fucking attendants following his fucking wake, but I'm selfish. I keep her to myself for I know that she's different. She's special.

Sometimes, I stare deep into her hazel eyes and see the lost. She's drowning in this, and she returns my gaze as if she's preparing herself for the moment that I'll pounce on her and kill her. She's afraid – of what we share and of how it can consume her – and I'm aware of that. But I make sure that she isn't aware of my fear too, my fear of losing her.

This fear eats me up alive when we're together. I make love to her with an honest uncontrollable passion, and I only hope that she feels this. That she feels the care, not the pain. That she feels my need, not my selfishness.

God must have thought that I have been wallowing too much in my egocentricity, because when I woke up one morning, the smaller details were zipping before my very eyes and dancing their own ethnic tango.

I saw her in a different light then, because of these little details.

I told myself that it must have been predestined, when my eyes caught hers and we gazed languidly at each other. There must have been a direct kindred signature in our palms for this, for short smiles and Irish coffee. This must have been fate's connection between us, similar to all things that I believe are connected.

It was deeper than being sheathed in her warmth at nights, deeper than friendly taps on the shoulder, deeper than gazing at her everyday and realizing that just by looking, you _change_.

Predetermined, my mind bellowed when I caressed her soft cheek. Preordained, the word popped in my head when she acknowledged my presence and smiled. _Pre_, as I reminded myself that this was happening, this was real.

As real as the woman that she is, Stella Bonasera, she can make me fall down on my knees anytime, anywhere; for every single second we're together, I feel like I'm the luckiest asshole in the whole damn universe.

How can an argument change all that? How can an argument that stems from an animal's life tell you that you're way off course? That this may not be what you think it is? How can a simple conversation tell you that you may be heading in this direction, but that she's not willing to come with you? How can the word 'friends' mean so much, yet destroy everything you have built on this shriveling tower? How can the notion of _togetherness _cease to exist when these small details suddenly try to make themselves known?

And goddamn it, she sure makes herself known.

She left me in my office, after the wake of our verbal disagreement, feeling like shit. As if I have been stripped of my skin and I was hanging out there: all muscles, bones, and nerves.

I never thought she has that power over me. Then again, I never thought that she even has the bravado to use it against me out in the open.

* * *

The mud feels too soft and threatening underneath my soles, same with the stench of wet grass crawling into my nostrils, as I walk inside the police taped perimeter. From the frenzied corner of the crime scene, Detective Don Flack sees me and excuses himself from a fleeting conversation. He then walks toward me, cursing every once in a while when he steps on a supple parch of land.

We meet halfway, both of us appearing too stressed about the weather. He sighs heavily.

"This is doing my leather no good," he tells me, looking down at his shoes and wincing slightly when he sees the damage.

I nod, agreeing. "I used my oldest pair. It only gets fresh air when the rain comes."

"You call that fresh air, huh?" He gives me a weird face and changes the subject. He motions toward the center of the perimeter, where a green garbage can is open and is circled by buzzing flies. I also see Stella there, busily snapping away with her Polaroid camera and feigning ignorance on my arrival. Dr. Sheldon Hawkes lingers nearby, giving her a blow- by- blow account of what could have happened.

Flack starts his narrative, while we trudge to the crime scene. "The house that owns this garbage can, the owner called it in. His name is Cramen Short. He said that he was taking out the biodegradable garbage – being the good citizen that he is -," He stops and we both shake our heads, amused at best. "When he stumbled upon our Vic. A Jane Doe, and according to Hawkes, has been dead for at least a week."

"What time did Stella and Hawkes arrive?" I ask, out of the blue. Flack steals a glance at me before answering.

"Stella, about a good five minutes before you did. Hawkes, probably a minute before her. I was surprised that you and Stella didn't arrive together. Anything the matter?"

It was an innocent question on his part, but I can't help feeling the uncanny strain of panic coursing in my spine. When I have convinced myself that I'm befriending irrationality, I retort as calm as possible.

"No, nothing's wrong. Too much paperwork, a funeral, and basically pulling everything in the lab together. I'm pleased with Danny's promotion," I say, flinging his question away. Flack barely notices.

"Yeah, I heard he celebrated by running naked across Wall Street." He snickers, the mental image of Danny doing so a hard thought to erase.

I find a big grin crossing my face. "You got that from Stella, huh?"

From the crime scene, our aforementioned co- worker finishes her photographs and stands up. She finally grants that I am there and she gives Hawkes a few words before trotting to where we are.

Flack raises an eyebrow. "Stella AND Aiden, actually. Aiden supplied the nakedness, Stella did the Wall Street."

"Interesting."

My partner strides into our conversation. She smiles a little at me, before handing me a pair of latex gloves. "You're late, Mac Taylor."

I put my briefcase down momentarily to snap them on. "I'm not late, you're too early in responding. You and Hawkes," I point out, still keeping the smile on my face. It's not hard to feign the smile. This woman can make me forget about the uncanny rain and the muddy shoes with only a curl of her lips. And she does just that as she escorts us guys to the scene, and I say _escort_ because she leads the way. I follow her like a subdued puppy on steroids – I don't know whether I'm professional or friendly - taking in with precision all the information she's giving away.

Reaching the garbage can, she steps back to allow me to process the scene. I do this as fast and detail- oriented as I can, having Hawkes talk me through the decomposition process and what this lady could have gone through.

I take one last visible hair fragment on the victim's forehead. I study it in the meager sunlight, and note that it's straight - unlike her curly, long hair. I bag it and give Stella the signal for the paramedics. It's time to take our victim out of the can.

"I want to see what she looks like … out here in the open," Hawkes tell me as the medical team approaches with a stretcher. We barely see her face for she is pressed quite firmly onto the can's edges.

All of us work to get the victim out – Stella and Flack hold the can in place while Hawkes and I gently pull Jane Doe out of it. We gradually do this, taking time to take note of possible evidences that come out with each inch of her body, and when we finally were able to lay the body down on the stretcher, her _face_ almost takes the breath out of my lungs.

I grind my teeth and blink my eyes several times to convince myself of this reality. Long, curly brown hair, pointed nose, strong jaw, and those lips …

Flack clears his throat awkwardly, disappearing into the background. Hawkes looks at the victim then at the person behind me successively, before moving toward Flack to also hide.

I, on the other hand, can't believe what's being presented to me. It's like a silly game that exact moment … one minute I am wallowing in this fear, the next minute it's right in front of me.

Someone MUST be up there, gobbling up my Queen and jeopardizing my King, telling me, _Checkmate, mother fucker._

Stella places a hand on my shoulder. I don't know if she is asking for support or if she is giving me some. But when the words come out of her mouth, they're shaky, and there is little room for speculation.

"Well, I don't get that 'you're a common face' comment at all, but after this …" She forces herself to study the victim again, but fails as she whips her head away, to me. I catch the Melon scent of her shampoo, and it hits me like a wake- up call.

Right in front of us is a woman who's a dead ringer for Stella Bonasera.

_You win, assholes. _

* * *

Yes, they have my Queen, but I _don't_ lose.

I do surrender to their victory, I will admit that. And as much as I want to tear myself away from her, I can't. I choose to be there when Hawkes examines and autopsies the victim, when Stella runs the rape kit, when Aiden Burn and Danny Messer come down to the morgue to see what Flack is so excited about. Even as the lights extinguish themselves in our offices, when Hawke's wall clock barks that it is time to go home and recuperate, I still can't leave her side.

I think our Jane Doe appreciates it, the fact that I am so absorbed by her. The bruises on her face glow a vibrant violet, the ligatures around her neck sinks back into the open wound and forms a dull red, and her calmly disturbed serenity strikes an unreachable part of me. I can't look away. I can't turn my back to her.

"She's not going anywhere."

The voice startles me and I jump off of my chair, springing around to see Stella standing in there in an akimbo. I take a deep breath to calm myself.

"The killer IS going somewhere, Stella," I stress, "we need to work on this case ASAP."

"We will," she smartly coughs back. She moves to my opposite direction, so that she is conveniently positioned in front of me. She looms over the victim and studies her face, scrunching up her nose, creating tiny lines at the corner of her eyes.

"Hawkes would like it a lot if you leave his morgue alone. He wants his beauty rest," she informs. Her eyes soften as she further scans every single inch of the woman before her. Her voice resumes, noticeably tender and delicate. "You know they say that when you die, your soul doesn't really leave earth that fast. You still get to see your body … you hover over your body until someone fetches you."

I smirk, despite of my mood, another testament to her powers over me. "Is that from _Oprah_?"

Stella jerks her head up and her face returns my fascination. "No, _Embraced by the Light,_ _Betty J. Eadie._ You should read more, Mac. Stop burying yourselves in those cold case files of yours," she says, then continues, "I don't know if this is luck or … simple coincidence, but hey, I'm glad for the advanced opportunity."

Her tone, the way she seems to believe so much of this, bothers me. I have the raging desire to pull her out of this morgue and to push her out of the building, to where she'll be far away from this Jane Doe, but I control myself. I exhale, then swallow hard.

"Stella, go home. I'll follow soon … I, I just want to clean up a little in my office."

"Everything's clean, Mac. I'm not leaving without you." She crosses her arms and stands defiantly before me. I have the panicky alarm to bow down to her, but I shrug it off.

There isn't a single second – during the time she tells me that she's not leaving without me – that I doubt what she has said or that I think I'm going to tell her otherwise. This is how she holds me. She holds me by the neck in a vise grip.

She divulges after the funeral for Officer Velasquez, that I used to wear my heart on my sleeve. It's still on my sleeve. Every once in a while she pierces it with her bony elbows. I just forget to tell her that.

I stand up and hover behind Stella as we walk to the exit. Before completely leaving the morgue, I give myself one last chance to look at our Jane Doe. Stopping in my tracks, I don't keep my visual comparison (of the person beside me to the person who is lying on the stretcher) a secret.

Stella notices this and she snakes her arm around my waist. This is a very awkward position – we usually save it for evenings on her couch, watching old movies of her choice - but she risks it because she knows that I need it. I need the validity. After so much death, I'm having a hard time separating the life from the deterioration.

"I'm still here, Mac," she whispers in my ear, gently putting her chin on my shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere. And so is she."

When she leans in to usher me out, I forget to tell her again that she's nudging my heart painfully.

* * *

Nothing between us comes off as stable. One minute we're lying on her bed, discussing what we'll be watching for tomorrow evening, the next minute we're telling each other that we are 'friends'. On this hand we're grasping our ever- escalating passion, on the other hand, we're struggling with our professional tandem. The past tells me that there's too much history here, but the future whispers that this is worth working for.

I work for it, the best way that I can. I try to put a finger on the fine line that we have between ourselves, so that we know where we tread on, so that we never do misplace this 'fine line'. So that there's no real emotional capacity in this so- called relationship. That there's only friendship with unaccountable benefits, only meaningless sex, only her. It's probably the best monogamous coupling I've ever been in, not counting my marriage.

Yet, at the same time, it is also the worst. Especially when I want to reach out to her when those eyes water inexplicably, when I want to assure her that I'll never hurt her after she looks at me with so much surrender, when I feel my insides burning up in a desire that's miles away from just being _need_.

I know now that this, what we share, is MORE than need. I can shake hands with its aspect of care.

I ask myself – often when I am sitting on her bed, naked, and I watch her stand and dress up to cook dinner for us – why not _fall_? For crying out loud, it is so goddamn easy to fall for Stella Bonasera. That silly smile of hers makes every single nerve endings of mine twitch and spontaneously combust. Her dry humor and no- nonsense wit challenges me to the point of saturation. And what's the harm in doing so? The world will not collapse. The people can fuck themselves all the same. Do _I _evenactually take note of what they think of me? Not anymore, I'm too old for that.

But then she shimmies her hips to the invisible beat in her head, and god, she's so irresistible when she does this that I take precautions in watching her because I don't want to go insane.

There's my reason right there. Stella can make me lose it, everything – Claire, my professionalism, my driven desire, my passion, my life. She can own it with the snap of her fingers. I can give it all to her. I see her effect on me, and our recent argument reminded me of what exactly she can do.

I can't give her that power. I don't think I can risk it.

When she comes to me though, after shoving the popcorn bag in the microwave, she still keeps those little shakes on the corners of her hips. She winks, beams, and shyly tucks her curls behind her ears. Then she straddles my lap playfully, and as she is doing this, I close my eyes so that I do not feel the capitulation; so that I only can smell her Melon scented hair, and feel her arms around my neck.

It makes me wonder if my decision is right, in not risking it. Because when I feel her all around me, my whole system tells me that it _isn't_. Maybe it hasn't been, for some time already.

* * *

"I don't want you to be here."

Stella opens her mouth, closes it, and then tries again. She succeeds.

"What!" She raises a hand in the air, as if to push me away because she can't bear seeing my face, but stops midway. "You gotta be kidding me, Mac."

I glance at Flack, who's standing behind me, and this seems to be a wrong decision because this further aggravates Stella. It must feel like an unspoken conspiracy for her.

"What is going on here?" she snaps, piercing me with her eyes. I'm trying hard not to squirm, and I think Flack is doing the same. "How come YOU didn't tell me about this beforehand? And Flack has to know about THIS before I did?" She jabs a finger in my direction. I believe I squirm a little, but I clear my throat to cover it up.

"Stella, please listen first," I calmly state. "We think that bringing you into the interrogation will compromise our prime suspect – and our chances of legally getting a confession."

"Because I look too much like our vic, Patricia Howard?" she spats back, utterly exasperated. "I thought we've gone through this, Mac! I know more about the case than anyone standing in this damn room. I know even more than Flack does!"

Flack raises his hands in the air. "Hey, hey, don't bring me into this!"

I shuffle to start another sentence, but Stella cuts me off, "And dammitt, Mac, didn't we talk about this already? Didn't we _mutually _agree that having me in the interrogation will increase our chance of a legal confession?"

Yes, we did have an agreement. But I only agreed because I haven't seen our guy yet. I haven't seen his criminal records, his unproven involvement with random rape cases a few years back, his transparent lust for anyone who is born with the XX chromosome. Or more so his burning anger for Patricia Howard, his stepsister.

It is nauseating, what he did to the woman. And I don't think I can stomach the fear of having Stella – an almost perfect carbon copy of our vic – to be in the same room with this monster.

"Yes, we did agree, but I'm taking precautions. I don't want to compromise-"

"Stop using the word 'compromise', use the word 'exacerbate'." She flips a mound of curly hair behind her shoulder. "It seems to be fitting."

"… No, I won't. And stop pushing me. I know what's best for this case."

"And for me, too?"

There it is. Her challenge.

How far can she push me. How far will I be pushed. How strong is her hold on me. How hard can I hold her back. How brave am I to risk this. Again.

I hold my stance steady and stare at her straight in the eyes, until she falters and resumes that 'hunted' look. Immediately, I falter myself.

I realize that I can risk this because the reward is great. To be confident in the knowledge that I'll still have her warm body beside me tomorrow night is worth any verbal disagreement. It is worth breaking any previous promises. It is worth stopping for and seriously considering the little details.

I see it in her, that she is tired of saying one thing and acting differently. I am too, of following the so- called big picture, when all I want to do is to be with her. We say _friends_ but we act as _lovers_. We say _yes_ but I suddenly say _no_. She thinks I'm like this, this egocentric moron who thinks of only himself, when all the while I've only wanted to care for her.

I don't want to be her hunter anymore.

"I'm doing this because this is what I think is best," I resolve, breaking the sticky tension and finally allowing both of us to breathe. I move forward, until we're only inches apart, and place a hand on her cheek. I don't care if Flack sees this, if anyone else does, because we both need this. I'm offering her what she has given to me so many times before out in the open. I want her to accept my care.

"And if it isn't … if this doesn't work to our advantage, I'm willing to bring you in. Just to jolt the guy."

She smiles. Something inside of me springs back to life.

"I _jolt_, huh? That's a fun word," she says, placing her hand over mine briefly before removing it as gently as she can. Her smile becomes a grin. "_Do your worst, for I will do mine,_ Mac. But do go easy on Flack.

"Ah," I reply, ignoring the mentioned Detective protesting in the background, "_The Count of Monte Cristo._"

"See? You should read more. You watch too much HBO," Stella laughs nervously, but her irises betray this by twinkling underneath the dim lighting. These are the last things I choose to remember once I enter the interrogation room.

* * *

A couple of hours later, I attack Stella's crumbling white kingdom with my listless black pawn. She groans as I trap her last Bishop.

"This is impossible," she says, rolling her eyes. "Why did I even agree to play this silly game with you?"

I grin smugly, tapping the wooden board, gesturing that she should focus. "This is called _chess_, Stella – get that right. And remember, you owe me." I choose not to view her reaction to this and I shield my eyes by gathering the little white pieces I won from her close to me. Soon, I hear her grumbling and I'm convinced that its one of the most pleasant sounds in the humid New York City evening.

She puts a finger on her chin, creating a new twist to The Thinker's position. "As far as I'm concerned, I think it's the other way around --- you owe me, Mac. If you didn't bring me into the interrogation, our man would've lawyered up. You know how he turned all white and tongue- tied as soon as I stepped into that four- by- four."

"I already paid you back, lady," I protest. "We're playing _Santana_ in the background, for Chrissake. What kind of payment do you want?"

Her eyes grow wide. "_Santana_ is a god, Mac. Watch your mouth!"

I release the subject. It's an impossible battle when it came to her musical preferences, so I instead continue defending myself.

"We're playing _on_ the bed. I didn't drag you out to the kitchen or to the living room for this. You should be thankful for that." I pat her knee (that's sticking out beside my leg) to alert her, directing my attention back to the game. "It's your move."

"I know, I know," she retorts. Tightening the burgundy covers around her chest, she decides to trail her surviving bishop away from my vicious pawn. As soon as she does this, I move my OWN bishop and it gobbles up her piece. Stella's jaws drop and she sparks a few obscenities in my wake.

"Settle down! Settle down!" I say. However, my laughter is inescapable.

Her irritation, combined with my delight, disrupts our chess board. Our movement on the bed produces waves after waves and I still can't stop. Stella Bonasera annoyed is an once-in-a-lifetime scenario.

Then, with one random flip of her arm, all the pieces scatter around us and it's too late to salvage what was left of our game.

"Great, we'll start all over again!" I suggest happily, killing her a little more.

"No way, Mac. That's it, I'm done with chess!" She collapses on the pillows, flinging the little pieces off of the bed. She buries herself inside the covers then, and she does this so often lately that I don't know whether she's becoming sick of me or if she's becoming too cute.

After shoving everything I can away from the mattress, I crawl to her and lie down on my back, beside her. She feels me near and also copies my stance, pushing the covers down to our ribs. For a few moments, we listen to each other's breaths and stare blankly at the collage of lights the outside traffic is creating on her ceiling.

I speak first, not knowing where my voice (or thoughts, perhaps) comes from, but when it hits our ears, its deep and throaty:

"We've been having a lot of arguments lately," I start, running my hand on the delicate threading of the blanket. I hear Stella's nods against the pillows before her voice fills the void.

"You don't think that's good?"

"The arguments?"

"Mm – hmm?"

I turn around to face her. "I only come off as an asshole because I'm doing what I can for the best. Always for the best, Stella."

Our eyes meet and for the first time that we have been placed in this position – of only us together, of our nakedness – she looks at me with only _care_ and not of _fear_. I'm startled by the difference that I blink successively for a second.

When I straighten my vision, she lies there in front of me in all of her vulnerability and I think that this is it --- the risk, the big picture, her. Maybe it's signed on our palms, and maybe its not, but somehow, no matter how absurd it may seem, everything connected me to this very second. Wherein I'm lying right in front of her and its all of me and all of her and I realize that this is _it_. That I really want this.

I reach out and touch her cheek faintly, caressing the smoothness. "You know that I couldn't do this without you. I care a lot for you."

She closes her eyes and leans into my touch, as if it's her lifeline, as if it's the only heat in the world that can keep her alive.

Afterward, when I feel every single cell of her body pressed tightly against mine in that ageless ritual of union, I tell myself that I'm fucking lucky that I don't lose.

**THE END**

* * *

**C/N**: Yes, I didn't dwell much on the case. I obviously only used it as a trigger, so please forgive me for any loopholes that were made. And this 1/1 goes down in my writing history as the hardest one to complete.


End file.
